


You're So Square (Baby I Don't Care)

by mmaree



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Summer Camp, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Bottom Harry, Enemies to Lovers, First Time, Fluff, Humor, Language, Louis-centric, M/M, Nerd Harry, Oblivious Louis, Praise Kink, Punk Louis, Semi-Public Sex, Smut, Summer Camp, Teen Angst, Top Louis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-25
Updated: 2017-09-25
Packaged: 2019-01-04 09:05:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12165810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mmaree/pseuds/mmaree
Summary: “So does it say who my new co-counsellor is?”“Yeah, it does.”  Zayn doesn’t even try to hide his smirk and Louis justknows.He sucks in a breath.  “It’s that bloody Styles kid, isn’t it?”Zayn starts cackling, and Louis takes a moment to rethink every life decision he’s ever made, figure out where he went wrong and why karma hates him so much.“I’m stuck with Britain’s Biggest Boy Scout for the rest of the summer, aren’t I?”***Or a summer camp au where Louis tries to sort out whether he wants to murder or snog his perky co-counsellor.





	You're So Square (Baby I Don't Care)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [objectlesson](https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/gifts).



> I probably could’ve written another 25k of this verse, but alas, this was a pinch hit so hopefully it will suffice. Please excuse my dodgy knowledge of summer camp/the outdoors. Everything I know about this topic literally comes from Hollywood and google searches. My idea of roughing it is when I have to walk to the next coffee shop because my Starbucks is out of dark roast, but there was no way I could pass this prompt up! 
> 
> Also, the boys are younger here. Louis’ done his first year at uni and Harry is about to start his second year of sixth form (Year 13). It’s not explicitly stated, but picture them at 19 and 17, respectively. (If you’re American™ or from another country where age of consent is different than the UK, feel free to round-up.)
> 
> **Title is from the Elvis Presley song of the same name

##  _T-Minus Twenty-s_ _even_

 

Louis has visited some hell-holes in his life, but Camp Aspire easily ranks top of the list.

First off, he’s being held here against his will.  Okay, so he’s not exactly a prisoner but it’s not as if he had any choice either when his dad said he needed to “clean up his act” before shoving camp brochures in his face.  He claimed Louis had been hanging with the “wrong crowd” when he made a surprise visit to halls after some admittedly less-than-stellar exam results.  His dad made it blatant how he disapproved of his son’s smoking, partying, and “frivolous spending” (as if they weren’t bloody well-minted). 

His dad had put his foot down, demanding Louis learn some responsibility and lead a cleaner, healthier lifestyle.  When Louis first glimpsed the brochures, he assumed he was being forced into a wilderness retreat for a week or so, but no, his father wanted him to _work_ at one of these Godforsaken places.  Moreover, the pater was cutting him off until further notice so he actually _did_ need the money now. 

It didn’t take long for him to select and apply to Camp Aspire out of the limited choices because at least it had a creative arts focus.  And it was only a month.  You could survive anything for a month…or that’s what Louis thought before he got here.

Honestly, if he hadn’t met Zayn—who was more or less in the same boat—he’d probably have offed himself on the first day.  As it is, he’s made it to Day Three which means he’s made it through two days of mosquitos; lame-ass camp activities; hair-ruining humidity; and whining, spoiled kids (and by the way, just because he was a whining, spoiled kid himself doesn’t mean he can tolerate them any better than the next person).

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Zayn laments from the bunk across from him.  The other counsellor’s already showered and reading their ‘morning mail,’ and Louis almost doesn’t want to know.

“God, what is it now?  Is there a bloody nature walk today?  Not to sound like the city slicker I am, but I’m up to my teeth in both nature and walks, bro.”

“No, I’m switching groups,” Zayn reports, and Louis feels an immediate sense of dread in the pit of his empty stomach.  “Apparently, visual arts is short-handed since Luke got sent home with poison ivy or summat so they’re switching me from performing arts to visual.”

“Fuck me.”  Louis pinches the bridge of his nose; he can’t deal with this level of shitdom this early.  “You’re not moving cabins are you?”

“No, but that means we won’t be co-counsellors anymore.  I’m gonna be with—” he checks the paper again “—Liam Payne, whoever that is.”

“Yeah, he seems alright; I sat next to him at training,” Louis explains, stretching.  “A bit straight-laced maybe, kept asking questions and all that shit, but you could do much worse.”

“Well, I’m not gonna argue with you there.” 

“So does it say who my new co-counsellor is?”

“Yeah, it does.”  Zayn doesn’t even try to hide his smirk and Louis just _knows_. 

He sucks in a breath.  “It’s that bloody Styles kid, isn’t it?”  

Zayn starts cackling, and Louis takes a moment to rethink every life decision he’s ever made, figure out where he went wrong and why karma hates him so much.  

“I’m stuck with Britain’s Biggest Boy Scout for the rest of the summer, aren’t I?”

Zayn just laughs harder, the unsympathetic tosser, and Louis bungs a pillow at him. 

“Well, you better get a move on,” Zayn suggests once he’s pulled himself together, rising again to finish getting ready.  “I bet you ten quid that Styles kid is going to be the first one at breakfast.”

“Like anyone would be fool enough to take that bet,” Louis grumbles.  “He’s probably decorated the tables by now.” 

“I’m sure it’s not as bad as that, Tommo,” Zayn reassures him, chuckling nonetheless.  With another groan, Louis pushes himself off his bunk and hopes for the best. 

 

***

 

“Why Harry, the tables look lovely!” Carly gushes as Louis joins the small crowd of junior and senior counsellors for their pre-breakfast meeting.  The head counsellor claps her hands together as she surveys the bunches of daisies and wildflowers in makeshift vases set all along the long line of picnic tables.  Between the vases, river rocks are scattered in Zen-like formations.  “And I just noticed you colour-coordinated the ribbons to match the team colours--what a nice touch!”

Zayn covers a snort with his hand but Louis can’t move, doesn’t have the strength or willpower to slide up to Zayn and make the first snide comment that comes to him because he’s living a nightmare.  An actual, real-life nightmare.  He’s seen those horror films set at summer camp where a killer picks off campers and counsellors one-by-one, and honestly, he’d rather take his chances at one of those places then be partnered up with Harry Styles.

Harry just blushes, though, clearly chuffed by the head counsellor’s remarks.  “Cheers, Carly.  I got ready early today and thought the tables could use some sprucing up.  I was thinking about decorating the group signs as well, but I didn’t want to go overboard or anything….”

Louis shudders as he scans the tables and wonders what this kid’s idea of going “overboard” would look like.  The word brings up all sorts of connotations, and he briefly fantasises about shoving Harry out of a canoe until he remembers that he doesn’t have the stomach for murder which, now that he thinks of it, is sort of a shame.

“Oh, I wanted to remind you that there will be a few changes in your assignments,” Carly announces once she’s ran through a short briefing that Louis only half-listened to.  “Zayn, you’ll be paired up with Liam here.  We thought visual arts would be a better fit for you since there’s an opening now and your course of study is art, I believe?” 

“Um, yeah,” Zayn mumbles, reluctantly side-shuffling towards the boy with the tomato-red face (was it always that colour?) and his hand raised. 

“Zayn, come see me after the meeting so I can get you your green polo.” 

Zayn perks up at that, looks so happy he might piss himself, and really, Louis can’t blame him.  It’s been two solid days of wearing orange for the two of them, and he doesn’t know about Zayn, but Louis is starting to feel like he really _is_ in prison.

And Louis is happy for Zayn, but he can’t help but feel slightly bitter because it appears he’s still got twenty-seven more days of orange in his personal forecast.

…And Styles.  Fuck, he forgot about Styles.

“Louis,” Carly continues, “that means you’ll be with Harry here—lucky you!”

“Yeah, lucky me,” Louis echoes under his breath.  He doesn’t budge from his spot but Harry recognises him and clumsily bounds towards him like a Labrador puppy, paw outstretched.  The boy’s already wearing an orange polo with the camp insignia embroidered on it because of course he is.  Louis wouldn’t be surprised if he wove it himself as soon as he found out about the change.

“Hi, I’m Harry!” the boy greets him stupidly, a wide grin on his face which shows off dimples that look a bit ridiculous on a kid his age.  (Louis isn’t exactly sure how old Harry is, but he’s certain of two things:  he’s younger than Louis and he’s definitely too old for dimples like that.)

“Yeah, I know,” Louis mutters, not giving two shits at this point as Carly dismisses them. 

Harry’s smile falters momentarily but then it returns again in full force.  “So I was hoping we could eat lunch together later?” Harry proposes, jogging to catch up with his new co-counsellor.  “It’d give us a chance to discuss some ideas—I’ve buckets of ideas for the orange group—and get to know each other better since we’ll be working closely together all summer and—”

Louis halts in his tracks.  He must look as poorly as he feels because Harry’s giving him an odd look.  “You okay, mate?”

“I’m…I’m fine,” Louis shudders out.

This is going to be a long summer.  A long, horrible, painful, miserable, spirit-crushing summer. 

And they’re only on Day _Three._

 

 

##  _T-Minus Twenty-five_

 

It’s half nine and the daily stage instruction is in full swing.  Normally, it’s one of those times of day when Louis doesn’t have to pretend he isn’t completely bored—but that’s normally.  Because this lesson, the instructor—Miss Sprockett—is set on turning the little minions in their group into dancers despite Louis’ best attempts at telling her she’s lost the plot.  Louis has seen the little devils in action for the past week, and the only thing they can dance around is the truth.

“Alright,” Miss Sprockett announces gaily, “who’s up for a little ballroom?”

“Ah fuck,” Louis mutters under his breath.  Harry nudges him in the ribs because his co-counsellor doesn’t understand the whole “personal space” thing, and apparently, Louis isn’t supposed to swear under his breath when they’re stood at least ten metres from the kids.  “Yeah, I hate dancing—ballroom especially.”

Harry gives him a quizzical look.  “I thought you said you were doing musical theatre at uni?  How can you hate dance?”

“Because I’m not keen on looking like a daft idiot if I can help it.”

“I’m sure you could never look like an idiot,” Harry reassures him and Louis wants to tell him to bugger off because:  A) Louis knows he can’t dance just as he knows Geoff Hurst scored a hat-trick in the final to help England secure the 1966 World Cup; and B) Louis doesn’t need bolstering from Harry Styles, a kid who’s probably an ace ballroom dancer with multiple trophies in multiple display cases.

Ten minutes in and Louis decides he ought to revise his perception of Harry as a great dancer.

The fact is, Harry’s shit.  (And for once, Louis isn’t exaggerating.)  He’s even worse than Louis is and that’s really saying something.  Styles is constantly tripping over his two left feet like a baby giraffe, stepping on Miss Sprockett’s toes until the teacher winces with pain and just gives up on Harry as a partner, instead asking a pair of students to model the steps to the rest of the group.

Secretly, Louis is loving all of it as he stands back with a smirk on his face, pretending to watch the demonstration so he can assist the students later when he’s really just enjoying the show.  He’s finally discovered something Harry can’t do, and it’s oddly satisfying in a _schadenfreude_ sort of way.

“Mr. Tomlinson?” Miss Sprockett shrills and Louis’ skin crawls, afraid he’s going to be her next victim.  He isn’t.  In fact, it’s worse than he could ever have imagined.  “Louis, why don’t you partner with Harry here and practise the steps,” the instructor suggests and Harry freezes on the spot.

“N-no, th-that’s alright,” Harry stammers out in that strangely deep voice of his.  “I think I’ve got the sequence down-pat in my head.  I can walk around and help the kids now if you like—”

“Nonsense, dear,” Miss Sprockett shushes him.  “I always say one can’t teach a concept before mastering it themselves.  You go on and practise with Louis.  Come see me, you two, once you think you’ve got a good handle on it.  I’ll be weaving about in the meantime.”

Miss Sprockett leaves, and then it’s like a stand-off.  “I’m not gonna be the girl,” Louis states outright, hands folded against his chest.  They’re on the edge of the “dancefloor,” partially hidden by a large overhanging tree and thank God for that.

“But I’m bigger than you,” Harry protests weakly (as if that’s an argument), “and I don’t know the other part.”

“So?  I’ve only done lead before, and I’m not about to switch up anything at this point.”  He wants to add that Harry was useless at leading with Sprockett, but he’s not _that_ much of a prick.

For some reason, Harry’s blushing like mad, but Louis doesn’t have time for Year Seven awkwardness.  The faster they get on with this, the faster they can go back to pretending to supervise the kids’ dancing.

“Come on, let’s get on with it then,” Louis sighs, motioning for Harry to step closer to him.  “I need your left hand on my shoulder and—no, your _other_ left, you knob.”

“Sorry,” Harry grumbles, his voice a little shaky like he’s nervous for some reason.  “I do better with praise, just so you know.”

Louis rolls his eyes.  “Fine, princess.  Would you please put your left hand on my shoulder like so.”  Louis drops Harry’s hand where he wants it to hurry things along.  “Good, now give me your right hand.  Bloody hell, Styles—this isn’t an arm wrestling competition.  Lighten up on that grip a bit before I lose circulation in my hand.”

Harry bites his lip and looks down.  He’s barely holding on to Louis’ hand now, his grip is so loose.  Louis is going to have to handle this boy with kid gloves from here on out.  He takes a deep breath and tries to remove the peevishness from his tone.  “A little tighter maybe…yeah, that’s perfect.”

Harry immediately brightens up and awaits additional instructions.  Louis barks out a few more directions, remembering to compliment the other boy from time to time.  They rehearse the choreography in slow motion and though he hates to admit it, Harry is actually a pretty good student.  He hangs on every word Louis says, making corrections swiftly and eagerly, and it’s strangely satisfying.

A breeze wafts through the trees and Louis gets a whiff of Harry’s aftershave.  It’s stronger than the one he uses and more minty.  They’re running through the sequence of steps in half-time now, Harry’s head bowed to study his feet, grasping Louis’ waist a little too tightly as if he might fall if Louis weren’t right there to guide him. 

“You’re supposed to look at your partner, not your feet,” Louis reminds him when the music starts up again and they resume dancing in half-time. 

Harry lifts his head slowly, cheeks flushed and eyes focused.  Suddenly, there’s a shift in the air, like the way it feels before an electrical storm.  Louis is struck by the tiniest of details:  the freckles dotting Harry’s face, the flawless hollow above his upper lip, and a jawline that, like a fine wine, will only improve with age.  He finds it surprising that he never noticed Harry had vivid, green eyes before—not that it matters of course.  It’s just an insignificant detail, just another slight oddity about the boy in front of him.  There’s a tingly feeling that trickles down Louis’ spine, and he wonders if it’s just the breeze picking up again. 

Yeah, he’s sure that’s it actually. 

Louis realises they’re frozen like a pair of statues, and he wonders who stopped dancing first—him or Harry.  “Come on then,” he grunts, not wishing to prolong this any more than required.  He takes a step back because somehow they’ve ended up mere inches apart.  “Let’s get this over with, yeah?”

Harry’s eyes dim, and Louis feels a little guilty for snapping at the younger boy.  After all, he was doing a much better job the last few minutes.  But then, he thinks of all the annoying shit Harry’s put him through in the last two days—Harry taking an eternity to get through a simple set of directions to the campers; Harry telling Louis that no, they’re not supposed to be playing football right now because this isn’t football camp; Louis never being able to step a toe out of line for fear of being reported; Harry “volunteering” both of them for extra tasks when Louis is more of a bare minimum kind of guy—and the apology dies in his throat.

 

 

##  _T-Minus Twenty-three_

 

“Tommo, you need to wake up.  We’re gonna be late…again.”

“Aw bro, just give me a few more minutes,” Louis yawns, rolling over to face his cabin-mate.  “I was dreaming I was down the pub with the lads, and I didn’t have third-degree burns, and there was central air, and there wasn’t a Harry Styles in sight, and….”

“Yes?” Zayn prompts, clearly amused.

“And it was just brilliant really.”

“I can imagine,” Zayn says wistfully, and Louis knows he feels it, too.  “But yeah, there’s no point whinging about it because we’re stuck here for the next—”

“Twenty-three days,” Louis supplies, not even bothering to look at the calendar page plastered on the wall by his bunk.  There aren’t enough days crossed-out yet…won’t ever be until it’s the last bloody day of this Godforsaken place.

Zayn snorts.  “You’re gonna drive yourself mad if you think about how much time we got left, mate.  You got the minutes memorised as well?”

“No, but I was thinking about carving tally marks into the wall so future inmates could see how long I suffered at Camp Asshat.”

“Aspire—and you aren’t the only one, bro.  Bloody hell, what I’d give to be back in Bradford right now.”

Louis squints his eyes at the harsh sunlight filtering in through the small window.  Before this week, he didn’t even realise it got light out this early.  He also hadn’t viewed the sun as an enemy, it was always a sort of ‘live and let live’ arrangement between the celestial body and him.  But now, he saw it as the antagonistic force it really was, one that required a system of defences like good-quality sunnies, gobs of sunscreen, sleeping with a pillow over one’s head, and a crucifix.

“Get up, ya lazy sod!” Niall shouts at the top of his lungs (his only voice level Louis suspects) as he swings open the door to their cabin.  The music counsellor swats him with his extra towel.  “One would think you played midfield for Donny Rovers the way you’re dragging your arse this beautiful morning!”

Louis flips him off but groggily sits up on the edge of the bed anyway.  He needs his cuppa.  Now.  “Leave off, yeah?  It can’t be that late.”

“Mate, even Zayn’s dressed already,” Niall replies, throwing on his red polo and khaki shorts in record time.  “We really should be down there now; meeting’s about to start.  If I were you, I’d skip the shower and just get yer uniform on unless you want another mark against you—it’d be your second, eh?”

Louis grunts in return.  Niall well knows that both Zayn and Louis got caught smoking behind the bushes two days ago, but Louis really needed a cig after spending the whole day with Harry Styles glued to his side, and Zayn, fortunately (or unfortunately), was the king of contraband. 

“Maybe you can sneak a shower in before dinner?” Zayn offers helpfully, the solid lad he is.  “I’ll cover for you since we’re on the same duty.”

Louis sighs, long and gut-wrenching.  It’s sad but showering has become the highlight of his days now.  It’s seven minutes (supposed to be two, but he can usually squeeze in an extra five without anyone noticing) where he can be _alone_ and wash the grime of Camp Aspire off him.  It’s seven minutes of freedom where he can squint and pretend he isn’t here.

And _that_ , ladies and gents, is fucking priceless.

But, he can wait until later if he has to.  It’s not worth getting a second strike against him so early, not when his dad threatened to cut off his allowance if he couldn’t show some maturity by the end of the summer.

He feels gross even after changing and running a comb through his slightly oily hair.  He’s not gonna focus on it though.  After all, it’s not like he’s got anyone to impress—right?

 

***

 

Louis reluctantly turns off the water.  He had to cut his shower off earlier than usual because he was already taking a chance as it was, and he didn’t want to rouse suspicion by being gone for too long.

He wraps a towel loosely around his waist, then cautiously ventures out of the stall, listening for any activity.  All the campers are at the toilets on the other side of camp, washing up for dinner, but one can never be too careful. 

It’s quiet so he legs it towards where he left his change of clothes.  He’ll dress in a stall and no one will be the wiser for it.  He’s just rounding the corner when he hits a slick spot on the floor and he goes sliding into the wall—except it isn’t a normal wall because the object he collided with is moving as well, tumbling backwards in an epic free-fall.

“Oof!” the ‘wall’ grunts as they hit the tile, and Louis is pretty sure it sounded an awful lot like—

“Styles?”  Louis gathers the courage to open his eyes, and he sees that his guess was, indeed, correct.  “What are you doing here?”

“I was about to take a shower,” a bare-chested Harry manages beneath him.  “I…um…had an accident with the tomato soup when I was serving it and Carly said I could take a shower if I wanted.  You?”

“I, well um.  You see, the thing is….”  Louis bites his lip.  He can’t remember the last time he had difficulty coming up with a believable story in any situation, but something about the innocent green eyes he’s staring into is giving him a conscious (or something equally revolting).

“You didn’t have permission, did you?”  Harry’s eyes widen with accusal.  “You know you’re not allowed to shower before dinner, right?  It’s an automatic demerit if you do.”

“No shit, Sherlock.”

“Then why—”

“Because I needed a fucking shower, alright?”  Louis narrows his eyes.  “I don’t see why it matters to you, not unless you’re planning on reporting me or something.  Are you, Styles?” Louis asks pointedly, but Harry doesn’t say anything.  Actually, the kid isn’t even paying attention to him now, his focus is on the ceiling instead, and there’s a glossy layer of sweat on his forehead.

“Louis, I, uh, think you should get off me now.”

And that’s when Louis feels it—a twinge down below, but it isn’t _his_ dick that’s showing interest.  No, there’s something hard pressing into his hip and Louis almost doesn’t want to know.  Tremulously, he glances downwards and realises he’s completely starkers, his towel having abandoned him in the collision.  Harry, luckily, is wearing pants but not much else from what Louis can see with their bodies currently pressed together, Louis’ wet hair dripping onto Harry’s toned shoulders.  The other boy’s got a pair of swallows tattooed on his collarbones, and yeah, Louis definitely wasn’t expecting that.

His eyes drag lower and he’s staring at a massive butterfly (or is it a moth?).  It stretches across a smooth, muscular chest and how the hell has Harry been hiding all _that_ under his polo?

There’s another twinge, and this time, Louis is certain it came from his own dick which is mildly horrifying.  Just because Harry Styles has a few muscles and tattoos, just because he has the greenest eyes and pinkest lips Louis has ever seen, just because Harry, apparently, has a massive—

Louis scrambles off the larger boy in two seconds flat as Harry shields his eyes.  Louis covers himself with the prodigal towel and tries to sound as nonchalant as possible when he tells Harry he’s decent.  Harry nods and heads off towards the showers, his face as pink as his lips now. 

Louis gets dressed and checks the time as he hears the shower turn on.  He tries to think of anything other than what just happened.  He can’t afford to have a stiffy right now, not when he’s got to get back for dinner, not when he’s gonna have to face Harry again in the next ten to fifteen minutes.  He tells himself that it was no biggie, that it’s a natural reaction as he takes the back way across camp, willing his hard-on away.  He’s sexually frustrated is all, hasn’t had a proper wank since _forever._

It’s got nothing to do with Harry Styles.  He’s _definitely_ not attracted to that oversized boy scout.  No fucking way.

 

 

##  _T-Minus Twenty_

 

“Anyone know how to pitch a tent?” Carly asks as they stand in the middle of a clearing, and Louis and Zayn start sniggering because _honestly._   “Something wrong, boys?”

It’s clear the rest of the counsellors on tent duty either weren’t paying attention (Niall, Josh, maybe Liam) or are just completely oblivious (Harry).  Louis gazes at Harry in wonderment.  His co-counsellor is stood at the front, taking notes with his tongue peeking out between his pink lips.  (How in the world are they so pink all the time?  Louis’ sisters don’t even have lipstick _that_ fucking pink.) 

Louis clears his throat.  “No, uh, me and Zayn were just amused, like, because I’m actually a tent-pitching expert.”

“Really?” Carly inquires, squinting one eye as she studies him.

“Yeah, I know how to pitch a proper tent—isn’t that right, Zayn?  Won numerous awards for it, I have.”

Zayn nods next to him, lips thoroughly sealed as he breathes through his nose.  Louis checks out the rest of his fellow counsellors, and he sees Niall wink at Josh while Liam’s cheeks turn a rosy shade as he stares at the ground.

Harry looks up from his notepad.  “I didn’t realise there were tent-pitching competitions,” he muses absently, and that’s when the rest of the boys lose it.

“My goodness,” Carly scolds them in her schoolmarm tone.  “You all have the giggles today, don’t you?”  She heaves a long-suffering sigh as she waits a few more seconds for the boys to collect themselves.  “Please don’t tell me I made a mistake by assigning you six to tent duty.”

“I was thinking,” Liam begins, “and this is worst-case-scenario mind you, that if we don’t get everything up in time, the kids could help with the remainder of the set-up.  I mean, it might be a good learning experience for them, don’t you think?  I’d say it could be character-building even.”

Louis stares at him like he’s an alien even if he supports the idea in theory because it means less work for them, and he’s always down for less work.  But character-building?  _Honestly_?

“No, we, uh, tried that a few years back and let’s just say it didn’t, uh, end well.”

“Oi, I remember!” Niall exclaims cheerily.  “I was a camper then, you see, and I heard that one of the other campers supposedly—”

“Thank you, Niall,” Carly cuts him off, looking a little green.  “You might, uh, refrain from telling that story at the moment—or ever.  I’m sure no one wants to hear about boring old camp stories.”  She punctuates it with a weak laugh, but Louis can see straight through her.  “So as I was saying, this is a creative arts summer camp so the focus is a little different, Liam.  Our goal is to expose our youth participants to a range of outdoors activities—but good thinking.”  She surveys the scene one last time.  “You’re certain you can handle this, boys?”

Harry skips up confidently and takes the instructions from her.  “Don’t worry, Carly!  We’ll have everything set up in time.  Two hours is plenty of time to get this done if we all work together.”

Carly still looks doubtful, but Louis knows she hasn’t got much choice.  All the rest of the counsellors are otherwise occupied, either with essential tasks or supervising, so she’s stuck with them.  As she walks back to camp, her walkie-talkie sounds off every thirty seconds with disasters of both the major and minor variety.

Harry is unfolding the instructions and studying them intently, tongue slipping between his teeth again.  They rest of them stare at each other for a minute as they realise the massiveness of their assignment.  But if there’s one thing Louis can do, it’s lead.  He sees their little group is in dire need of leadership, and luckily for them, Louis Tomlinson is here to fill that opening.

“Never fear, lads.  We’ll do this the Tommo way!

 

***

 

“Why isn’t this working?!” Louis sputters, hands on hips as he surveys the mess in front of him.  There are piles of sticks and poles _everywhere_.  Some stick straight up in the air (Niall’s) while others are in a tepee formation (Josh’s).  Some are sorted by size and shape (Zayn’s) or stacked neatly (Liam’s) as if either might make a difference in construction.  Harry is no help at all, still pondering over useless words on paper.  Louis wants to tell him not to bother, but he’s just glad the kid’s out of his hair for a few minutes. 

(Besides, Louis has built things with his uncle before, and he knows for a fact that ninety-three percent of instructions are either incomprehensible or written in something that resembles English (but isn’t quite).)

“Um,” Harry pipes up, “maybe we should try—”

“I know what I’m doing,” Louis snaps because he is _not_ going to let some kid in sixth form boss him around.  Louis knows what he’s doing…mostly anyways.  And even if he doesn’t, he’s perfectly capable of figuring it out himself, thank you very much.

But apparently, the rest of the lads don’t agree.  There’s a minor mutiny, led by Liam, and an unofficial vote of no confidence before Louis is ousted faster than David Cameron after Brexit.  Somehow Harry’s put in charge (God and King George help them all), and Louis just waits for things to go to pot—but they don’t. 

“Nicely done, boys!” Carly lauds just as they’re setting up the last tent.  She’s returned just ahead of the rest of the counsellors and campers, and Louis thinks it must be a bloody miracle that they’ve managed to finish within the allotted time.

“It wasn’t bad at all once Harry sorted out the directions,” Niall tells the head counsellor, and Louis wants to sock his traitorous bunk partner in the jaw because Harry’s difficult enough to deal with as it is.  He has to let it go, though, because the campers come rushing in _en masse,_ and he’s got to protect the newly-constructed tents from the imminent trampling.  Louis is _not_ about to set up another tent in this lifetime (or the next for that matter).  _Especially_ if Harry’s going to get credit for his hard labour.  No bloody thank you.

 

 

##  _T-Minus Nineteen_

 

Louis’ dad always told him that, sooner or later, every man must face his own personal Waterloo.  Louis just didn’t think his day of reckoning would come so early in life.

He almost wishes it was last night, back when they were all sat outside the stupid tents complaining about the mosquitoes and midges.  Those insects weren’t exactly pleasant to deal with, but they weren’t at the level of fuckery as whatever _thing_ is currently buzzing about his cabin.

It’s big is the thing—not like massive or anything, but it’s larger than Louis likes his bugs as a general rule…and it flies.  (Most of all, it flies.)  Call him picky, but Louis doesn’t fancy flying insects—especially those which appear to be possessed by the devil.

And he’s not exaggerating here.  The nasty fucker had its black bug-eyes fixed on Louis from the moment they met, ever since Louis made the innocent mistake of thinking it was just a housefly and swatting it away.  Now of course, the thing’s got a personal vendetta against him which is really unfair because Louis wouldn’t hurt a fly.

…Except for this one.  After all, they’re living by the laws of the jungle out here.  It’s every person and mutant fly to himself. 

The insect swoops in for another attack and now Louis is doing what any sensible person would do in response: 

He’s out the door screaming bloody murder.  Unfortunately, so is the fly.

It stays in close pursuit for fifty metres until Louis trips over a small branch and tumbles to the ground.  He’s getting ready to defend himself with his bare hands when he’s being attacked from another front.  His nasal passage and eyes are burning as a chemical taste hits his mouth.

“Who just fucking maced me?” he spits out, covering his eyes and hoping he hasn’t been completely blinded. 

“Language, Louis.  There might be children around.”

 _Styles._ He should have fucking known.

Louis takes a deep breath and tries to recount all the reasons why he shouldn’t strangle his co-counsellor.  He’s able to list them off fairly quickly, what with all the practice he’s had lately.  Then, he painfully opens his watering eyes.  “Hullo there, Styles,” he greets the boy in a saccharine tone.  “Lovely to see you this morning.  Now, would you be so kind as to explain why you just maced me?”

“It wasn’t mace; it was just insect repellent,” Harry informs him.  “I always keep a portable can of the good stuff on me in case of emergencies.”  He clears his throat and looks nervous as he crouches down to where Louis is sprawled on the dirt.  “Sorry, I got you in the face.  Didn’t mean to do that, but you turned your head around just as I started spraying.”

Suddenly, Louis remembers the insect.  He scrambles to his knees and searches around for his demon pursuer.  “Where’d it go?” he asks a little more frantically than he meant to do.

“The horse fly?”

“Yeah, that what it’s called?  It was chasing me down like a dog whatever it was.”

Harry nods earnestly.  “Yeah, they can be pretty aggressive and their bite hurts like the dickens.”  He thrusts out his hand then and Louis hesitates only a moment before taking it.  Harry pulls him to his feet easily.  Louis wouldn’t have thought the boy was that strong…well, if he hadn’t seen him with his kit off by the showers the other day.

Oh yeah—Louis promised himself he wouldn’t think about that.  Ever.

“Well, er, cheers for…you know.  I mean, I basically had it sorted and all—mostly anyways, but, er, yeah.”  Louis is tongue-tied which is ridiculous because Louis doesn’t get tongue-tied.  He figures it must be a side effect of being chased by a horse fly. 

Yeah, that’s definitely it. 

“Well, see you at the morning meeting,” Harry offers timidly.  “And, um, just a suggestion, but you might think about putting on some trousers before then.” 

Louis looks down, and of course, he’s just dressed in his camp polo and a pair of red boxers—and they aren’t even his best boxers because he’s got the worst luck and this just isn’t his day (or month actually).

When he looks up again, Harry’s disappeared, and Louis is perfectly fine with that.

 

 

##  _T-Minus S_ _eventeen_

 

Last time Louis checked, this wasn’t an aquatic camp.

You’d never know it, though, with the way everyone’s buzzing around him.  From the teachers to the campers, from the director to the junior counsellors, everyone’s balls-to-the-walls over the water-based competitions planned for the day.

And okay, Louis is just as (more) competitive as the next person so of course he wants to win.  When he looks around at the sorry lot before him, however, he knows it’s going to be an uphill battle.  They’re like the rejects from Hufflepuff, and he’s really needing the ambition of Slytherin right now.  Case in point:  as the director runs through the rules for the first event, the girls are plaiting their hair and the boys are digging in the earth with their fingernails.

“Ruby, Ananya—stop messing with Emily’s hair and pay attention.  That goes for you as well, Harry,” Louis reprimands his co-counsellor because _really_. 

“Sorry,” Harry apologises sheepishly, letting the straw-coloured strands go and sitting cross-legged again with his hands in his lap. 

“And boys, stop torturing the billybutton.”

Jake crinkles his flat, freckled nose.  “What’s a billybutton?”

“The thing you’re torturing,” Louis supplies irritably.  “And quit it, yeah?” he adds because he knows it’s a slippery slope from torturing small creatures to dumping bodies of innocent campers in the lake.  And even though a murder mystery might break up the monotony of Camp Asshat, he doesn’t want to get in trouble if any of his kids go missing.  He’s got enough to worry about as it is. 

…Like the fact that no one in a bloody orange shirt is listening to the director _…still_. 

“It’s a chiggypig,” Jake whinges, flicking the poor bug so that it curls up into a ball again, “and I’m not doing nothing.”

“I’m not doing _any_ thing,” Harry corrects gently.

“Well neither am I!” Jake appeals and Louis’ head is beginning to throb.  “I was just petting this chiggypig, is all.”

“It’s a slater, isn’t it?” one of the girls pipes up.

“No, it’s a carpenter,” Syed chimes in.  “My dad said so.”

“I heard it was a rolypoly on the telly.”

“Cheesybob!”

“Cheesylog!”

“Sowbug!”

“Woodbug!”

“Doodlebug!”

“SHUT IT, ALL OF YOU!” Louis erupts and the entire camp’s staring at him now with reproach, like he’s off his head, screaming at a bunch of innocent children even though Louis’d lay a tenner that half of his kids—at the very least—are the spawn of Satan.  Yet, even his fellow counsellors are giving him a look like he needs to calm the fuck down. 

_Whatever._

“Is everything alright over there orange group counsellors?” the director asks, a distinct edge to her tone.

“Yes, all good!” Harry chirps.  When everyone’s gone about their business, he whispers to Louis, “You alright, mate?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Louis grunts back.  “I mean, I almost had a nervous breakdown over a bloody insect while you were basically M.I.A., but I’m good now.”

Poppy, who had been quiet up till now, peers up at him with big brown eyes.  “Um, Mr. Louis,” she begs politely, “woodlice are actually a type of crustacean—isopod crustaceans, I think.”

Louis smiles down at her.  “I’ll remember that—thank you, Poppy.  You saved the day.  We’ll have to tell the group that later, yeah?”

Poppy shyly hugs herself as if overcome with joy and Louis chuckles softly.  He turns back to Harry, and the boy has an almost fond expression on his face.  But just as soon as Louis glimpses the expression, it’s gone, and Harry’s looking straight ahead.  Louis follows suit because he doesn’t have time to be thinking about funny looks from his co-counsellor.

No, not when they’ve got a water bucket relay to win.

 

***

 

“Okay, so we may have run up against some stiff competition from the green team,” Louis declares, pacing back and forth in front of his ragamuffin squad.  They look a right mess, as if they’ve been through the wringer and then some.  Their shirts are muddied up and soaking wet, hair dishevelled, trainers untied, and faces smudged.  “We may have shown some poor form in the last event, but we’ll annihilate the competition on this next round.  Hey, which event’s next, Harry?”

Harry pushes his falling fringe back and checks his clipboard.  “Swimming relay,” he announces.  “Everyone got their bathing costumes on?”

Louis tunes out to reflect on their odds.  They may not have the strongest runners, but they’ve got a chance with swimming.  He knows for a fact that two of his kids are solid swimmers, even on a competitive team back home, so they’ve got a shot.  They just need five good swimmers to do two laps and they’re fucking golden. 

He eyes the green team, under Liam and Zayn’s charge, and he can see the kids are pumped up.  While Liam makes some type of motivational speech, Zayn catches Louis’ eye and smirks at him as if to say that they’ve got this next one in the bag.

Over Louis’ dead body. 

“Look, we’ve gotta win this one.”

“Louis,” Harry interrupts, “it’s not about winning, it’s about how you—”

“Win,” Louis finishes because he’s not going to let any clichés about sportsmanship and other rubbish ruin their chances.  “It’s about how you win—just like Harry said—because we’re going to win and win big on this one.  Got it?”  There’s an unimpressive smattering of responses followed by a weird squidgy noise.  “Tell me I did _not_ just see you eat that, Oscar.” 

The ginger lad stares back at him with wide eyes and lips closed tightly.  The movement of the boy’s Adam’s apple is the only sign that he did, indeed, just swallow something. 

“Oscar, did you eat something?” Harry asks, appalled.  “What was it?”

“A woodlouse,” Louis cuts in before all havoc wreaks lose again.  “It was a woodlouse.”  He winks at Poppy, and she blushes. 

Oscar burps and there’s a chorus of ‘ew’s’ as the little miscreants react, some even rolling about on the ground dramatically clutching their stomachs.  (Louis shouldn’t be surprised since this is a performing arts group, mostly comprised of wannabe-actors.  _Still._ )

“Hm, tastes sour,” Oscar muses, and Louis can’t even with this kid right now as he watches his group lose focus completely.

The swim relay’s about to start, and they don’t stand a chance.  Not a fucking chance.

 

***

 

Louis must be able to see into the future because they come in dead last in the swim relay.

Okay, maybe not _dead_ last since yellow group was disqualified, but it still was a poor showing, and he’s got to do something to rectify this losing streak A-bloody-SAP.  The only consolation is that the green team didn’t win again.  Somehow, Niall and Josh’s red team pull off the victory, and Louis is not going to be the only one of his cabin-mates without a ‘W’ today.  That’s not going to happen.

“Listen,” he instructs the kids with as much gravity as he can muster.  “I was wrong earlier, wrong to tell you that you had to win.  It was just….”

“Yes, Louis?”   

“It was just that I wanted you all to see what an amazing _team_ you are, how amazing you can be if you all work together.”  The kids are hanging on his every word, sat in a circle around the two counsellors.  He’ll have them eating out of his palm soon.  “Do you guys know what a team is?”  A few hands go up and he ignores them, answering his own question:

“A team isn't a bunch of kids out to win. A team is something you belong to, something you feel, something you have to earn.”

There’s silence (for once), and Louis knows he’s smashed it.  “Now go get ‘em, Oranges!”  (And yeah, the whole oranges thing sounded weird, but he’s got to work with what he’s got.)

“That was a really inspirational speech you gave them,” Harry compliments as they’re walking towards the canoes, slightly behind the rest of their group.  They’ll be in the canoes, too—supervising.

“Cheers.”

“I thought it was great in the _Mighty Ducks_ as well,” Harry adds, a twinkle in his green eyes. 

For a brief moment, Louis almost forgets he’s with Harry, with his sworn enemy, when he laughs boisterously and slaps the other boy on the back.  “Yeah, well I think I delivered it better, don’t you?”

“I’ll tell you after this next event,” Harry winks, walking in front of him.  Louis can’t stop looking at his back—the curve of his shoulders, the way his hips swing just a little.  He squeezes his eyes shut a moment and reminds himself that he’s got to get his head in the game.  He doesn’t have time right now to be distracted by hips that he’d give anything to make fingerprint-shaped bruises on—especially if said hips belong to Harry Styles.

 

***

 

By some freak of nature, they win the third and final event.  That’s the reason they’re overjoyed, celebrating on shore when it happens.

A canoe tips because a couple of kids were playing around and standing when they shouldn’t have been.  They come up quickly, though, much to the onlookers’ relief.  Both kids have floaties on, but if anything, they only serve to slow the boys down as they swim closer to shore, the director reprimanding them for their behaviour. 

Louis is the first person to notice.  “Where’s Zayn?”

Liam’s face pales, and he’s in the water before anyone else realises what’s happening.  A moment later, Zayn’s head pops up as he frantically splashes about.  It disappears again, and Louis has to sit down, almost can’t watch as he waits for Liam to close the distance.  It all happens in a blink of an eye as the camp holds its collective breath.

But soon, the ordeal is over.  Zayn’s coughing and sputtering out water as Liam drags him up the bank.

Harry claps his hands together.  “That was brilliant, Liam!” he gushes and Louis grimaces, charging up to meet the pair.

“I’ve got him from here,” Louis tells Liam crossly, pulling his best mate from the bulky male.  Liam’s got a hurt puppy dog expression on his face, but it ain’t working on Louis.  He knows how these meathead Hercules work, and he’s not buying it.  Liam is probably just looking for an opportunity to do some mouth-to-mouth with Louis’ best mate and that ain’t happening—not on Louis’ watch anyway.

Louis helps Zayn to a small mound as Liam tries to dissuade the interested campers from crowding them.  “Why didn’t you tell anyone you couldn’t swim?  You could have drowned, you stupid git!” he hisses once Zayn stops coughing. 

“Tommo, stop being a drama queen.  I’m fine—just swallowed some water, that’s all.”  His voice is scratchy and his eyes are red as he makes small gasps for air.  He holds a hand to his chest as he sits up.  “Fuck, I really need to quit smoking.”

Louis scans him worriedly.  “Bro, you look like shit.  Maybe you should get checked out in the infirmary.” 

“Louis, I’m _fine_.”  Zayn’s giving him the look that says no further advice wanted and Louis gives up.  If the stubborn fuck has a death wish, then so be it.  It’s not like Louis can force Zayn to go to the infirmary if he doesn’t want to go. 

But then Louis thinks about how much crappier his summer will be if Zayn kicks off, and now he realises he’s got a personal stake in all this. 

“Look, I don’t see what the problem is to just go down there and—”

“Zayn, you okay?” Liam interrupts, rushing over from where he was conversing with Harry, Niall, and Josh.  The trio lead the three groups of campers away.

“Yeah, thanks to you.”  Zayn’s got a sickly-sweet smile on his face, and it’s definitely not an expression Louis has seen on the Bradford boy before.  It’s also definitely a look he never wants to see again.

“Oh, it was nothing,” Liam simpers, making it all the more difficult for Louis to hide his disgust at where this is heading. 

“Yeah, you should have let him drown.  Besides, isn’t there a rule about throwing the small ones back in or summat?”

Zayn snorts but Liam looks a little taken aback, apparently never having heard of the concept of sarcasm before.  Louis mentally adds it to the boy’s growing list of faults.  If Liam’s not careful, he might end up with a list longer than Harry Styles.

(Scratch that—Liam isn’t even close.  No one is.  Harry’s in a league of his own.)

“We really should take you to the infirmary,” Liam observes worriedly.  Louis wants to tell him that it’s no good suggesting it, that Louis has already broached the subject twice already, but he just waits for the wrath of Malik to set Hercules straight.   

“Alright,” Zayn agrees readily, much to Louis’ shock.  “if you think I should, Liam.”

And not to blag from Riri, Yeezy, and Macca, but Louis really is about “FourFiveSeconds from wildin’” at this point.  Maybe TwoThree even because what the actual fuck?

He tries not to be too bitter though, tries to focus on the positive.  After all, Hercules _did_ persuade Zayn to go get checked out.  There’s that at least.

 

***

 

Louis has been seated in the chair next to Zayn’s cot for the past fifteen minutes—not that Zayn’s noticed.  Ever since the nurse finished checking Zayn over and permitted Liam and Louis to see the patient, Zayn’s barely spoken three words to him.  Instead, Hercules has been monopolising the conversation from where he’s sat on the opposite side of the cot. 

“You sure you’re not cold?” Liam asks, henning the boy to the point of nausea.  Liam pulls the stiff white blanket covering Zayn up to his shoulders.  “I can ask for another blanket if you want?”

Louis side-eyes Liam because yes, it’s cooler in here, and yes, the idiot’s just got a towel draped over his shoulders.  Liam’s still in his swim trunks, in fact, not seizing the opportunity to head back to his cabin to throw on some bloody clothes while they waited for the nurse to let them in.  At this point, Louis is starting to think it’s simply a clever plot to show-off his ripped abs.  And okay, they’re impressive, but Louis’ seen better.  For one, the naked expanse is kind of boring.  There isn’t even a tattooed swallow or member of the Lepidoptera family in sight. 

“Liam, I’m okay.  _Really._ ”

“I know, I just…I just can’t believe you almost drowned.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t.  You rescued me, remember?”  There’s a smile to Zayn’s tone, and it makes Louis want to gag because when did Zayn fall for Hercules here?  Yeah, he wasn’t as bad as, say, Styles, but still, he thought Zayn had _some_ sense about him, thought he had some fucking _standards._

Apparently, Louis was dead wrong because now Liam is petting Zayn’s forehead and Louis can’t even.

Louis leaves without a word—not that either of the two lovebirds give a flying fuck.  Glancing at his watch, he sees that Quiet Time’s just begun so there isn’t a need to rush back just yet.  Carly and the others won’t miss him for another half hour at least.  Louis strolls down to the now-deserted lake and sits on the edge of the bank, aimlessly throwing stones into it.  He tries to skip a few and fails miserably.

“You’re doing it wrong,” a raspy baritone declares out of nowhere.  “It’s all in the wrist.”  

Louis doesn’t even have to look up because he already knows who’s giving him unsolicited advice and crashing his pity party.  He stands up and brushes the dirt off his knees before glaring at the intruder.  “First off, I wasn’t even trying.  And second, you don’t have to correct me _all_ the time, you know?  No one likes a bloody know-it-all, Styles.”  Louis storms off, but the hurt look on Harry’s face stays with him.

 

 

##  _T-Minus Fifteen_

 

It’s movie night and Louis can’t take it anymore.

He can’t take the kids talking during the film even though he’s told them to shut it multiple times.  He can’t take the film itself because it’s lame as fuck and Louis doesn’t do lame.  He can’t take that his best mate just bailed on him to sit with Hercules even though they aren’t required to sit by colour (for once), and he really can’t take the kissy faces the green team counsellors are making at each other.

If it weren’t for Niall and his entertaining ad-libs to the film, Louis isn’t sure what he’d do.

“Mind if I sit here?” Harry asks, looking at the empty spot where Zayn was sitting a few minutes earlier.

“Why?”

Niall nudges Louis in the ribs and speaks up.  “He meant why not— _right_ , Louis?”

Louis rolls his eyes.  It’s not what he meant.  At all.  Because the thing is that it’s all fine and dandy for Niall to be polite and friendly to Harry during recreational time.  He, unlike Louis, doesn’t have to deal with Harry for every other waking second of the day.

“Yeah, why not?” Louis grouches.  “I mean…it’s a free country I guess.”

Harry sits down because apparently he can’t take a bloody hint.  Louis pretends to be absorbed in the film as the younger boy fidgets beside him.

Harry clears his throat.  “So I, um, just wanted to say I’m sorry about what happened at the lake.”

Louis doesn’t say anything, just stares straight ahead at the screen.

“I don’t want there to be any bad blood between us, like,” Harry continues hesitantly, speaking just loud enough for Louis to hear.  “I know that sometimes I go overboard because I…I want you to like me…more than I should maybe.  I just really think you’re the coolest guy I ever met, and you seem so friendly with all the others, and….”

Louis is silent; he doesn’t know how to respond to Harry’s confession.  He thought Harry looked down his nose at him, at Louis, the city slicker who didn’t belong as a counsellor at a summer camp. 

“I…I should go,” Harry says, standing up.  “Just sorry if I’ve been a little intrusive.  I know I can be a bit much at times,” he says lightly but Louis can see the heaviness hiding underneath.  The screen flickers, and the way the light dances on Harry’s face makes Louis see things that aren’t there.  “See you tomorrow, yeah?” 

 

***

 

Louis is a douche.  He’s a Category 5 fuck-up and a Class A douche.

He thought it would make him feel better to admit it, now that he’s staring at the bunk above him housing a snoring Niall, but that’s clearly not the case.  He just feels like…someone he doesn’t like.  He was always capable of reeling in his arsey behaviour when needed, but when it comes to Harry, it’s like he’s programmed to be on the defensive.  It’s as if his brain refuses to view Harry as anything but an enemy combatant.  So yeah, Harry gets on his fucking tits sometimes, but if Louis’ being honest, he’s been a total dick to the kid ever since they met.

And Louis knows what he’s capable of.  He knows he can break people with words.  He can do it slow and with calculated intent.  He can do it swift and with casual indifference.

But before now, Louis was always able to _stop_.  He’s being a dick to Harry, and he gets it, he does.

He just wishes he knew _why_.

 

 

##  _T-Minus_ _Twelve_

They’re in dance class again and Louis is wondering why they’re wall-to-wall in dance classes when there are so many other things they could be doing in regards to performing arts.  Things like singing, or acting, or stagecraft, or pantomime, or bloody baton-twirling. 

But no, the Camp Gods have some kind of evil conspiracy to turn them all into dancers.

At least it’s tap and jazz this week.  Anything’s better than bloody ballroom.  _Anything._

But Louis is beginning to have his doubts when they’ve been doing this for a solid hour and he can’t feel his ankles anymore.  He also wishes he had earplugs to block out the twenty-odd pairs of feet stomping and clomping about the stage without proper tap shoes.  On the flipside, Louis has to admit how singularly amazing the class is because he’s quite sure that no two tappers are tapping to the same rhythm.  It’s a feat Louis wouldn’t have thought possible unless he witnessed it himself.

Another half hour passes and Louis has to admit it flew faster than the last one, now that he’s got the hang of a few steps and is able to give some tips to the Children of the Corn.  Still, if Louis ever attempts another shuffle-ball-change or chassé, it’ll be fifty years too soon.

And don’t even get him fucking started on jazz squares.

“Good,” Miss Sprockett crows as the music stops abruptly.  “Now that we’ve finished our lesson for today, I’d like to spotlight our most improved dancers of the week—your very own counsellors, Mr. Tomlinson and Mr. Styles!”  The students applaud politely while a few giggle and point.  Harry looks like he’d rather be run over by a bus, and Louis is pretty sure he’s just been mowed down by a double-decker.

“But we don’t know the tap routine that well, Miss Sprockett,” Harry begins to protest before the mature woman’s waving her hand.

“Doesn’t matter, Mr. Styles.  I was hoping you two would show us a bit of the ballroom choreography we learned last week.  Yes, I did see how marvellously you two performed it when I wasn’t supposed to be looking.  The students saw how—pardon me, dear—dreadful you were with the choreography while you were demonstrating, and I just wanted to show them what hard work, perseverance, and—“ she briefly glances in Louis’ direction “—the right partner can do.  Geraldine, the ballroom music please!”

Begrudgingly, they come together.  They haven’t spoken to one another beyond the bare minimum required, their being co-counsellors of the same group and all.  Louis felt ashamed after what happened at the lake so he’s just clammed up and Harry hasn’t looked him in the eyes since the night of the movie.

“Closer!” the old bat shouts and Harry appears absolutely petrified.  Louis draws him in closer while mentally flipping off their instructor and now there’s nowhere for either of them to look but at each other.

And it’s funny, but Louis never really tuned into the lyrics the first five hundred times he heard the song in rehearsals.  He hears them now, though, as he’s holding Harry in his arms, as he leads him across the floor effortlessly.  He’s not even thinking about the movements of his feet anymore and either is the other boy.  He can tell by the far-away look in those verdant irises as they glide along to the music:

 _“It only happens when I dance with you,”_ the singer warbles in an old-fashioned tenor, _“t_ _hat trip to Heaven till the dance is through….”_   The lyrics are sentimental and beyond cheesy.  It’s something he’d normally take the piss out of if one of his mates told him he fancied the song so he doesn’t know what’s got into him all of a sudden, why he feels swept away in the song, weightless.

 

> _With no one else do the Heavens seem quite so near_  
>  _Why does it happen, dear, only with you?_  
>    
>  _Two cheeks together can be so divine_  
>  _But only when those cheeks are yours and mine_  
>    
>  _I've danced with dozens of others the whole night through_  
>  _But the thrill that comes with Spring_  
>  _When anything could happen_  
>  _That only happens with you._

 

The last bars fade away and there’s applause as well as a few whistles and hoots.  It’s then they both awaken from whatever trance or spell they were under, breaking apart like they’re repelling magnets.  Louis, for his part, felt his fingertips would catch fire if he had to touch Harry for one second longer.

He hopes they weren’t complete rubbish as he can’t remember a thing from the last three minutes.  To his relief though, Miss Sprockett looks chuffed to bits.  There’s a gleam in her eye as she tells them how lovely they performed the choreography before instructing the group to try it one time themselves to end the class.

Louis and Harry don’t dance this time.  They don’t even look at each other.

(They can’t.)

 

 

##  _T-Minus_ _Ten_

 

Louis was halfway looking forward to the party tonight until Harry mentioned that he and Nicole (the purple counsellor) were organising it.  Then, to make matters worse, the director gave them more information on the event.  She said it was called the ‘junior counsellor mixer,’ a carrot thrown to the junior counsellors before they were beat with sticks during the last ten days of camp as the little devils— _students_ —finished up their independent projects and concocted future pranks to torment their counsellors. 

Harry made the suggestion that they hold the mixer earlier in the summer next year so that the counsellors would have the opportunity to get to know each other sooner.  The director praised it as the idea of the century, but Louis stopped listening after that because it wasn’t like he was going to come back here.  Ever. 

Besides, with a moniker like ‘junior counsellor mixer,’ Louis was over it before it even began.  It’s the type of event he’d stay away from with a vengeance in the outside world. 

But as the time rolls around and he’s bored as fuck, he begins to reconsider.  After all, this isn’t the outside world and drastic times call for drastic measures, as they say.

When he walks into the old barn, though, he’s bloody horrified.

There are strings of coloured lights and streamers _everywhere_ , a few tables with board games ( _ohmygod_ ), and a concession stand with crisps, pretzels, and punch.  Carly Rae Jepsen starts playing, and Louis pivots around, about to run for the hills when—

“Louis?!”

_Shit._

He’s been spotted…and by Harry of all people.  Louis’ back is to the other boy younger boy so he wonders if he can pretend he didn’t hear him.  While he’s deliberating, Liam approaches the entrance to the barn and Louis realises he’s been cornered like…a thing that’s been cornered.

So, like Charles the First before he got his head lobbed off by Ollie Cromwell, he resigns himself to cruel, cruel fate.

 

***

 

Okay, so maybe the party wasn’t _that_ horrendous. 

After all, there was poker, and a few sick tunes, and spiked punch (thanks to Zayn, the reigning king of contraband), and Niall attempting to do cartwheels while half-pissed. 

And really—what more could one ask for?

Afterwards, he helps tidy up with a few of the others because he’s got nothing better to do.  He’s about to dump the rest of the punch when he remembers he doesn’t like to see things go to waste.  It’s really a public service when he finishes it off before washing the bowl. 

About twenty minutes later, however, he’s regretting his philanthropic decision. 

He searches for a place to disappear to for a while, spots the hayloft ladder, and sneaks up when no one’s looking.  He surveys the space and is surprised to see it isn’t as bad as he imagined.  In fact, it would almost be the perfect place for Zayn and him to sneak out to for a smoke if it weren’t for the fact that hay and fire don’t mix. 

He settles on a bundle of hay, and it’s pretty comfortable, all things considered.  He moves a few other bundles around and lays back.   He lets his eyelids droop, telling himself he’s only going to close his eyes for a few minutes, just needs a short kip, and he’ll be right as rain.

When he opens them again, it’s dark and his stomach and head have settled a little.  There’s some dust from the hay aggravating his nostrils, and before he can stop himself, he sneezes.  It’s an earth-shattering sound in the lonely barn, and he’s glad no one’s around to hear.

“Who’s there?”

Scratch that.  It’s Harry, and he sounds almost panicked.  Louis wonders what the bloody hell the kid’s doing in the dark barn right now.  It would be the perfect scene for a horror film if it weren’t for the fact that it was so farfetched.  Shit, if he were watching this at home, Louis would be complaining to his mates that there would be no way some adorably nerdy counsellor would be wandering around a deserted barn in the middle of the night.  It begged the limits of belief and that was putting it mildly.

“Hullo?  Is somewhere here?”

Louis decides to be a sport and take the suspense out of the situation.  “Yeah, it’s me,” he calls out.  “I fell asleep in the loft.  Any reason why _you’re_ still here?”  Louis peeks over the edge, and he can just make out the figure of the other boy in the relative darkness.

“Oh, I was just leaving actually.  I came back because I forgot my torch.  Got it now though.”

“Wanna come up then?”  The invitation’s out of his mouth before Louis has time to think it through, but he goes with it. 

“Don’t know if I should.  It’s…it’s late, and we’re supposed to be in our beds,” Harry hesitates and Louis can practically see his worried eyes and teeth digging into his bottom lip.  “Lights out and all that, you know.”

“For fuck’s sake—live a little, Styles.”

“But it’s dark and—”

“Turn your torch on then.  Here, I’ll hold the ladder.”

Harry’s torch blinks on, and it’s almost blinding until he lowers the setting.  “You sure you want me to come up there?”

“I wouldn’t have bloody asked if I didn’t.”

“Oh.  Okay.  Well, if you’re sure then….”

“Styles, get your ass up here or bugger off and let me sleep.”

Harry sticks the torch in his back pocket before carefully shimmying up to the loft.  He trips climbing off the ladder, and Louis is thankful Harry only had unleaded punch tonight.

“There—that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“Guess not,” Harry agrees swallowing as he settles on a bundle of hay and sets the torch on the floor.  “So now what are we supposed to do?”

Louis hadn’t thought that far ahead, but in all fairness, he didn’t think he needed a fucking itinerary before he invited the kid up.  “Um, just hang.”

Harry nods.  “Oh, right.  We’ll hang.  Sounds good.”  He adjusts how he’s sitting, crossing one leg over the other and fidgeting with his hair.  “So how exactly do we going about ‘hanging?’” he asks.

 Louis snorts.  This kid is too cute for words.  There are only a couple of years between them, but socially, it’s more like a decade. 

“I knew this was a bad idea,” Harry states, and Louis can tell his feelings are hurt.  He’s starts to rise, but Louis grasps his elbow.

“Look, I didn’t mean to sound like a jerk.  I just…think you’re cute, that’s all.” 

Harry settles back down, but there’s still an unsureness in his manner.  “Sometimes, I have a hard time reading you.”

“Sometimes, I have a hard time reading myself when I’m around you.”  Louis takes a stuttering breath and then just lets go.  He can’t hold it all in one more second.  “It’s all an act, you know.”

Harry’s eyebrows knit together.  “What is?”

“Everything…I’m a fake.”  And then to his horror, he starts _crying_.  It’s not much, just a few errant tears he has to wipe away with his sleeve, but what the actual fuck?

Harry hugs him, wraps his long arms around Louis’ shoulders and squeezes tight.  It’s like being burned by a flame while basking in its warmth, and it takes everything within Louis to hold his sorry arse together right now.   “Sorry for being so pathetic.”

Harry pulls away and looks him in the eye.  “You’re not pathetic.  You’re just hurting.”

“I’m pathetic,” Louis insists, sniffling.

“You’re _human_.”

“Yeah, I’m a fuck-up, you mean.  This whole summer has been proof of that.”

Harry scrunches his nose.  “No, I just think you pretend not to care when you really do.”

“Or maybe I’m just really an asshole.”

“I doubt it.  Plus, I’ve seen you with the kids,” Harry adds with a wink.

Louis gazes at him in wonder, tears finally abating.  “Why the fuck are you so nice to me?  I’m a total dick to you ninety percent of the time, and you don’t deserve it.”

Harry shrugs.  “I can tell that’s not the real you.”

“See, told you I was a fake.”

Harry laughs heartily and places a palm on Louis’ knee.  It’s a simple touch, but Louis almost forgets to breathe for a moment.  “You put up a front to the outside world maybe, but I don’t think you’re a fake at all, Louis Tomlinson.  I think you’re special.  I think you’re one-of-a-kind.”

Louis wants to argue with the other boy.  He wants to tell him he’s talking out his arse because Louis is Louis, and Harry is…well, _Harry_.  Something stops him however.  Maybe it’s the earnestness in Harry’s expression or maybe it’s the effect of the alcohol or the quiet country night.

“Now, let’s get back to our cabins before we’re missed,” Harry declares at last, eying the ladder distrustfully, as if it’s going to move on him at any given moment.  “This whole rebel thing is new to me, and I think I’m gonna have to take it in small doses.”

“Don’t worry--you’ll get used to it,” Louis teases, confidence returning from wherever it fucked off to for the past half hour.

Harry smiles, big and bright.  “I hope so.”

 

 

##  _T-Minus_ _Eight_

 

The trick to skipping stones is, in fact, in the wrist.  It involves cocking the wrist backwards on the follow-through before executing the perfect flick at the very end to ensure the stone gets enough spin and is able to hit the surface of the water at the proper angle for maximum effect.

Oh, and apparently, Harry is as good an instructor as he is a student.  He’s patient and encouraging, doesn’t laugh when Louis’ stone zooms to the depths of the lake on his first several attempts.  The boy cheers like his club’s won a title race when Louis manages to get a pathetic skip on his tenth try.  His celebrating must be infectious because Louis finds himself jumping up and down after he gets his first proper skip, the black projectile skirting across the smooth surface in zen-like fashion. 

When Louis turns back to the other boy after the stone makes its final descent, Harry is full-on beaming at him.  There’s a tug on his proverbial heartstrings when Louis sees the look.  He’s seen it before—the proud exuberance when one of the kids in their group does something extraordinary.  Louis feels a little undeserving of it if he’s honest, but maybe it’ll be something he can live up to.  Maybe, just like the jumpers his nan bought him every Christmas growing up, he needs some time to grow into it.

 

 

##  _T-Minus_ _Five_

 

The fire crackles as Louis pauses for dramatic effect.  No one says a word—not Harry who was protesting earlier that Louis’ story was too scary for the younger campers nor anyone else from the groups gathered around (orange, green, and red).

“She looked in the rear view mirror, but the boy was gone,” Louis narrates, his voice barely above a whisper.  “She whirled back around and drove home as fast as she dared through the dark, country roads.  Once she arrived, she slammed the door of her car and sprinted the entire way up to her bedroom—”

“Wait, did she lock the front door?” Syed asks, teeth chattering a little.

Louis pats the boy on the head.  “Of course.  Dead-bolted it, too.  Anyway, she was busy convincing herself that it was all just her imagination when the phone rang—”

“Oh Jaysus,” Niall breathes, voice shaky.  “Don’t tell me it’s the boy!  You can’t do that to her!” 

Louis nearly breaks character, but the rest of the campers just shush the other counsellor as they wait breathlessly for the ending to the ghost story.  “No, it wasn’t the boy.  There, on the other end of the line and speaking in her own voice, _was the girl herself_.”  There is a collective gasp.  Harry leans in a little closer, and Louis smiles to himself.

“What did the voice say?” Poppy whispers, eyes sparkling in the fire. 

“She said… _’he’s behind you_.’”

“Jaysus, he’s got me!” Niall shrieks, clutching at his neck as he jumps up from the circle and bolts back to the cabins. 

A moment later, Zayn cackles devilishly from across the circle.  He takes a deep breath, then explains, “I told Jake to sneak up behind Niall to spook him, like.”

“Nice one!” Louis observes, high-fiving Jake who’s now sat in Niall’s spot and looking right proud of himself.  “Wish I would’ve thought of it myself.”

“You’re awful,” Harry scolds, shaking his head.

“You’ve _no_ idea.”

Even by the light of the fire, Louis can see Harry blush.  He gets the urge to snog the younger boy right then and there, right in front of everyone, but somehow he holds back.

He doesn’t know how much longer he can wait though.

 

 

##  _T-Minus_ _Three_

 

Two days. 

(Or, what is how long Louis can refrain from kissing his co-counsellor?) 

 

 

##  _T-Minus One_

 

“Meet me at the loft tonight,” Harry whispers into his ear as they’re watching the showcase from the wings.  “One hour after lights out.”

Louis raises a brow, but he doesn’t have a chance to say anything before the next act is about to perform.  “Knock ‘em dead, Poppy,” Louis calls to the little girl as she giggles past him in tap shoes and a top hat two sizes too big.  “Where’s Ruby?”

“Here, Louis!” the older girl shouts, sliding into place and adjusting her bowtie.  It’s not a second too soon because their music starts up a beat later.  It’s precisely then that Louis discovers he isn’t cracked up for this stage manager bullshit.  The strain’s just too much for him.

“When’s our next act?” he asks Harry who’s standing by with his clipboard.  Louis is beginning to think it’s an extra appendage with the way the junior counsellor hasn’t set it down in about three years.

Harry plucks the pencil from his ear and glances down the list.  “Green team’s got some kind of a slideshow, then it’s purple with an Adele solo and red with a guitar trio.”  He makes a couple of notes, then tucks the pencil behind his ear again.  “We’re after that.”

“Who’s on?”

“Jake and Oscar with that comedy routine—the Abbot and Costello number.”  Harry scans the backstage area as loud applause filters in from the audience outside.  “Hey, where’d they go?  I swear they were just here a minute ago.”

“I’ll go find them,” Louis grumbles, wondering if the director would object to him delivering a couple of fatal beatings to the missing juvenile delinquents. 

He finds them eventually, mucking about outside because they apparently enjoy chopping off whole decades from Louis’ life expectancy.  He drags them in with a PG-rated threat before asking them to rehearse their lines…within earshot.

And yeah, it’s official:  Louis definitely wasn’t meant for this backstage shit.  The show’s hardly begun, and he’s starting to develop peptic ulcers and a receding hairline while Harry stands there happily checking off items on that damn clipboard and giving last-minute instructions to the next act.

Louis simply doesn’t have the fortitude, isn’t made of the right stuff.  Willy Shakespeare penned, “such as we are made of, such we be,” and Louis suspects the fellow really had something there.

And as he sneaks a lingering glance at his co-counsellor, he’s pretty sure the boy’s made of pure fucking gold.

 

***

 

“And where are you sneaking off to then?” Zayn questions smarmily, and Louis knows he’s been caught red-handed.  He plays it cool though. 

“Can’t a bloke take a piss without getting the third degree?”

Zayn arches a brow.  “Oh so you’ll be right back then?”

Yeah, that was a definite own goal, and he’ll have to do better than that if he wants to get Zayn off the scent.  “Just going out for a little air.”

“Cabin fever?” Zayn smirks.  “Want some company?”  

For half a second, Louis worries his friend has somehow deduced what he’s up to, but, of course, that’s ridiculous.  “Nah, I just need to get out for a bit.  I’ll, um, see you later.” 

“Have fun.”  And yeah, there definitely was a shit-eating grin accompanying that last comment. 

Louis turns the knob and pauses at the door.  “Don’t, uh, wait up for me.”

Zayn snorts.  “Wasn’t planning on it, mate.  G’night.”

Yeah, Zayn is _definitely_ being weirder than usual tonight.  Louis doesn’t have time to dwell on it, though, because he’s going to be late if he doesn’t get a move on.  He shuts the door as quietly as he can, hoping not to disturb at least _one_ of his cabin-mates tonight, and then makes his silent trek to the barn at the edge of the camp.

 

***

 

Harry’s already there, waiting for him in the soft moonlight with a shy smile and the warmest green eyes Louis has ever seen.

They climb the ladder to the loft, and Louis isn’t surprised when he sees that most of the bundles of hay have been moved out.  In their stead are cosy-looking blankets and pillows.  There are a few votive candles as well, and Louis thinks it a small miracle the clumsy lad didn’t burn the barn down in the process of lighting them.

“We can’t be loud,” Harry warns, eyes darting about as if there’s someone hiding in the cramped space.  “Don’t want to be caught.”  Louis is about to ask what Harry is afraid to be caught doing when the other boy lunges in and presses their lips together. 

It starts off with slow, uncertain touches, noses brushing together and limbs in the way.  They’ve only kissed a few times before, only been allowed the briefest of stolen moments, but now they’ve got time.  They’ve time to explore, to discover the other by candlelight.

And so they do. 

Harry becomes restless first.  He ends up in Louis’ lap somehow, and the older boy goes with it, slotting their tongues together and sliding his hands into the back of Harry’s khakis.  He grabs Harry’s ass firmly with both hands, and the boy throws back his head with a gasp.  Louis takes charge then, guiding the other boy’s hips until they’re dry-fucking, chasing the delicious friction.

Louis ruts up, harder this time, and Harry keens on top of him, breath hot against his ear.  The younger boy swivels his hips in desperate circles as small whines escape swollen rosy lips.  He’s dropping his hips wildly now, clawing at Louis’ shoulders and back as his breath strains to catch up with his movements. 

And Louis fucking _loves_ it.

He could get off like this, could revel in the way this perfect boy is falling apart on top of him, is practically _riding_ Louis’ cock, but he’s greedy.  He wants more.

He wants the real thing.

He’s just about to say so, too, when Harry abruptly pushes off his lap.  He’s breathing heavily as he gazes back at Louis with scared eyes.

“I’ve never done this before.”

Louis tries to collect himself.  “D-done what?” he stammers out, trying not to touch himself even though his dick’s screaming for attention right now.  “Never been with a guy you mean?”

“N-no.”

“Had sex?” Louis tries.

“Well, kind of.  I meant, I’ve never…well.”  Harry sucks in a breath.  “I’ve never really done anything besides snogging—and I’m not even very experienced there.”

Louis glances up and down the beautiful Adonis before him.  “You’re taking the piss.”

“I’m not,” Harry insists, and then in seeming contradiction, he shucks off his shirt.  Louis is dumbfounded for a moment because he’s somehow forgotten how good Harry looks without a shirt, how bloody fit the younger boy is beneath that stupid orange polo. 

“Wait—what are you doing?”

“What do you mean what am I doing?  It’s bloody hot in here.”

“No, I mean—we should stop,” Louis says reluctantly as his dick screams at him to mind his own fucking business.  “It’s late—past your bedtime,” Louis jokes, and he slaps his hand to his forehead because he instantly realises that wasn’t the right thing to say.

Harry bristles.  “You think I’m too young for you,” he says darkly.  “You’re not attracted to me or whatever.  That’s it, isn’t it?”

Louis groans in frustration because what Harry said couldn’t be further from the truth.  “No, that’s not it at all.  Believe me—it’s taking everything within me not to pounce on you right now, but I know if I go there, I’m not going to be able to stop until I’m fucking you senseless.”

Harry shivers.  “Why don’t you?”

“Well because….”  But Louis isn’t sure what to say.  _‘Because it’s your first time_ ’ sounds off even if it’s true.   “Because I don’t want you to regret anything.”

“I won’t,” Harry promises, “and I want this, too.  I only told you it would be my first time because I didn’t want you to be disappointed if, you know, I'm rubbish or whatever.”

“As if,” Louis snorts because from what he’s seen so far, this kid is a natural.  “So you’re sure then?” he confirms.

“There isn’t a doubt in my mind.”

And Louis is over the fucking moon until he remembers the other reason why they absolutely can’t do this.  “I haven’t got a condom.”

“S’alright,” Harry smiles a bit mischievously, “I do.”  He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small package like he’s some kind of bloody magician.  Of course Harry came prepared, just like the fucking boy scout he is. 

“Where the bloody hell did you get the condom, babe?”

Harry blushes.  “Zayn.  He gave me a couple of packets of lube, too.”  Harry looks like he’s about to die of embarrassment as he empties his other pocket. 

“Should’ve guessed,” Louis groans.  “That little shit was giving me a hard time before I left tonight—that’s the reason I was late.”

“Oh, that’s funny,” Harry says coyly, inching closer.  “You see, I was sort of hoping you’d give me a hard time tonight,” Harry fucking _purrs,_ and it goes straight to his dick.  Louis isn’t sure where this Harry came from, but he’s not going to look a gift horse in the mouth either. 

“Lay down,” Louis commands, lust overtaking him, “on your back.”  As expected, Harry complies immediately.  Louis slides a pillow beneath his head and under his hips and checks to make sure he’s comfortable. 

“Oh, and these need to come off,” he orders, tugging at Harry’s waistbands.  The boy strips them off so quickly, he bumps his head on the sloped ceiling.  “Eager are we?”

Harry just licks his lips in response.  His pupils are blown, chest glistening in the flickering candlelight.  Louis lets his eyes travel farther down, tracing the gorgeous, well-defined v-lines until they reach the thick, uncut cock laying heavy against Harry’s abdomen.  Louis can see it’s already red and leaking.  He’s forced to look away, squeezing himself a little before he explodes in his fucking pants.

He quickly strips off his shirt, then takes Harry in his hand, stroking up and down his shaft gently as if he’s holding something fragile.  He loves how smooth the other boy feels against his palm, loves the heaviness against his tongue as he takes him in his mouth, swallows him down without warning.  Harry keens, back arching off the floor.

“Don’t move,” Louis growls, popping off just long enough to wipe away the obscene string of saliva connecting them and to see the base, primal desire radiating from those viridescent eyes.  Louis maintains eye contact as he teases the tip with kitten licks before taking him deeper, breathing in the delicious, musky scent.  He moans around the thick cock, loving the stretch on his lips as the boy trembles beneath him, nails digging into the floorboards as he struggles to stay still.  Louis suspects they’ll discover scratches on the floorboards later despite the temporary floor covering.

Louis pulls off again, lets his tongue loll around the tip leisurely.  “You’re being so good,” Louis coos.  “So still and so fucking good.”

Harry shivers again.  It’s a full body shiver, too, and Louis hopes he didn’t go too far.  He’s just wrapping his lips around Harry again when, to his astonishment, the boy comes, hot liquid shooting down Louis’ throat.  The older boy takes it like a champ, swallowing down as much as he can.  His nostrils burn as he chokes a little, still coughing as he sits up on his knees. 

“Shit, I’m sorry—” Harry starts to apologise but Louis waves him off.

“It’s fine—just wasn’t expecting it, that’s all.”

“Yeah, I wasn’t either,” Harry admits sheepishly, all dimples and fucked out eyes, and Louis feels the sudden urge to jump off the nearest cliff.

“Yeah, thought so,” Louis chuckles, wiping away the cum still dripping down his chin.  “And apparently, someone’s got a praise kink.”

Harry blushes but doesn’t deny it.  (He can’t really under the circumstances.) 

“I remembered what you said about liking praise when we were practising that choreography, and I figured it was worth a shot,” Louis relates, winking down at him.  “So you like when I tell you how good you’re being for me then?”

Harry traces his lips with the pad of his thumb and bats his eyelashes, and Louis wonders if Harry knows what he’s doing to him.  “Yeah…yeah, I do.”

“You want to be my good boy, don’t you?  Want to be good just for me, huh?”  Louis sheds his pants and grabs a packet of lube.  “Bend your knees, babe,” he instructs huskily as he lazily strokes himself.  He takes a moment to admire the view, enjoy the sight of Harry’s spent cock slowly fattening up again, before spreading the boy’s legs farther apart.  “Much better,” he sighs.

He dips one lube-covered finger in Harry’s virgin hole, and the boy tightens around him, the ring of muscles spasming a bit from the foreign intrusion.  “It’s okay, babe—just relax, yeah?  Gotta loosen you up with my fingers before I fuck you.  Gonna fuck you so good, too.”

“ _God_ , Louis,” Harry rasps, head lifting up off the pillow.  “Want you so bad.”

“That’s it,” Louis praises as he starts thrusting in and out slowly to the knuckle.  When he thinks Harry’s ready, he adds another digit.  “You’re being such a good boy, taking my fingers so well.  Can’t wait to see how well you take my cock.”

Harry mewls, and Louis’ got three fingers in him now.  A minute or two more, and he withdraws them, not wasting any time as he rolls on the condom, hands shaking as if _he’s_ the inexperienced one.  He pumps himself a few times, then aligns his tip with Harry’s puckered hole.  “Ready?” he asks hoarsely.

“Yes… _please_ ,” Harry begs, and that’s all the encouragement Louis needs before he pushes in. 

He goes slow, remembers how it was for him the first time.  Harry winces slightly as Louis inches in, and Louis watches him closely.  “You want me to stop?”

“N-no,” Harry shudders out.  “I just need a minute.”

Louis nods.  “Okay, tell me when.”  He waits then, staying painfully still until Harry relaxes, his body finally adjusting to Louis’ size.

“Go.”

Louis doesn’t need to be told twice.  He guides himself in, little by little, until he eventually bottoms out.  It’s almost too much to take when he looks down at where their bodies meet, Louis’ cock buried to the hilt in Harry’s tight heat.  He groans as he draws his hips back before impaling the boy on his shaft again.

He continues thrusting into Harry, enjoying the slide, the slow drag, and searching for that spot.  He stops to adjust, hitches one of the boy’s legs on his shoulder before he resumes his rhythm.  Soon after, Harry gasps and Louis knows he’s found what he was looking for.  He goes after it relentlessly, aiming for it every other thrust until Harry’s moans echo off the walls of the deserted barn.

“You gotta be quiet, babe,” Louis reminds him, but it’s the first order Harry won’t (can’t) follow so he covers Harry’s mouth with his hand when he knows the boy’s almost there.  With his other hand, Louis pulls on Harry’s neglected cock, jerking him off and fucking him in the same rhythm.  Harry squeezes his eyes closed, voice coming out in muffled moans and needy whimpers as he comes for the second time.

Louis wipes the cum off his hand, sets the boy’s leg down, and grabs onto his hips.  He dicks into Harry faster and faster, until he feels the burgeoning of his own release.  He snaps his hips forward then, coming with a growl before collapsing on top of the younger boy.  Shaking and still inside Harry’s warmth, he licks at the seam of the boy’s mouth before Harry grants him access.  They kiss sloppily, wantonly, as Louis’ spent dick pulses inside the boy beneath him.  After a while, Louis carefully slips out of the younger boy.  He ties the condom, sets it aside, and lays beside Harry on the hard floor of the loft.

“I think I like you,” Louis confesses, coming down from the lust-filled haze long enough to focus on green eyes beside him.  “Think I like you quite a lot actually.”

Harry smiles.  “I think I like you, too, Louis.  Think I always have.”

It’s too late to think about things like distance and logistics and love (yes, love), but he knows this could work if they want it to.  They can throw caution to the wind, figure it out as they go along.  They can be reckless, do what feels _right_.

And that’s one thing Louis _is_ good at.

 

 

##  _T-Minus Zero_

 

It’s the afternoon of the final day.  The campers have already vacated the premises and even though the staff are still largely here, Camp Aspire has a ghost town type of feel to it.  Louis’ dad arrives to pick him up which means he’ll get to spend the entirety of the drive back to Doncaster listening to ways he should be more like his sisters.  Fucking fantastic.

He’s going to miss everyone, and he’s not quite sure how that happened.  The good news is that the lads all promise to text and FaceTime, to get together if/when they can.  Sometimes, these things are just empty promises, but Louis feels instinctively that that’s not the case this time. 

He takes one last look around, and it feels bittersweet, this feeling he can’t describe.  He doesn’t know why as he’s already done the difficult part, already said goodbye to everyone—even Harry.  (That last goodbye was pure torture, but they got through it.  Somehow.)

“Louis—before you go!” Carly pants, catching up to him and his dad just before they leave the grounds.  His dad is looking at the head counsellor curiously as she briefly introduces herself before turning back to Louis.  “Hey, I wanted to say what a terrific job you did this summer!  All the kids really adored you.”

Louis is seriously doubtful about that.  Yeah, he may have let his guard down here and there, maybe even getting a wee bit attached to a handful of the campers in the group.  And okay, even Jake (who may or may not end up on Britain’s Most Wanted someday) and Oscar (who ate at least a pound of insects over the course of the summer despite Louis’ best efforts) managed to get under his skin.

“I’m proud of you, son,” are the words Louis hears, and for all the times Louis’ tried to get his father’s attention growing up (for both the right and wrong reasons), his fucking record as a camp counsellor does it.  It’s ironic really.

“So I was sort of hoping you might want to commit to returning next year?” Carly continues hopefully, ponytail swishing to the side.

His dad smiles down at Louis before turning back to Carly.  “As much as we’re flattered that—”

“Yeah, I’d love to come back,” Louis breaks in and the look of shock on his father’s face is bloody priceless.

“You sure, Louis?  I’m not forcing you to, you know.  You could have the summer off or work another job if you choose.”

“No, I want to do this,” he insists, and he does.  Really.  And it’s not only because of Zayn or Niall or Liam or Harry.  (Well, maybe it’s a little to do with Harry if he’s honest.)  No, Louis sort of…doesn’t mind this whole summer camp thing…at all.

“Brilliant!” Carly celebrates, clapping her hands together.  Oh, and you can be a senior counsellor if you like since it’s your second year.  I’ll send you the information when we get closer….”

Louis looks across the field and sees Harry waving at him with that dopey smile on his face, and he’s already counting the days.

_T-minus three hundred thirty-five…T-minus three hundred thirty-four…T-minus three hundred thirty-three…._

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments and kudos always appreciated. :)


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